


Shieldmates

by Elendiliel



Series: A Medic's Guide to the Galaxy [10]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Empathy, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Planet Devaron (Star Wars), Planet Parnassos (Star Wars), Planet Yavin 4 (Star Wars), Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendiliel/pseuds/Elendiliel
Summary: Life is beginning to settle down again for the Resistance after the battle of Exegol, even for its newest, least expected members. One such, Armitage Hux, takes advantage of the relative peace and quiet to track down his oldest friend, and persuades his new best friend to come with him. But as all three will soon find out, the operative word in that sentence is "relative". There's still work for them to do, and they wouldn't have it any other way.
Series: A Medic's Guide to the Galaxy [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954132





	1. Prologue: Devaron (present)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sanctuary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22006582) by [CaptainXcamino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainXcamino/pseuds/CaptainXcamino). 



> Apologies in advance if I've mischaracterised either Phasma or Parnassos. I haven't actually read _Phasma_ , just the Wookieepedia article on Parnassos, and shaped both woman and planet as I saw fit. I've also played pretty fast and loose with galography, hyperspace and communications technology to fit the plot. This _is_ fiction, after all.
> 
> Chronology: about two-thirds of a standard year after Exegol, later than all previous fics in this series.

_Pain. Excitement. Fear. Bloodlust. Hatred. Affection. Anger._ The cocktail of emotions and sensations I mentally categorise as “combat” courses through me. Most of them aren’t mine. They belong to my team, and to the people we’re currently fighting. The loudest notes in the empathic symphony would come from my bondmate (not as weird as it sounds, honest), Armitage Hux – yes, that one – if he hadn’t long ago mastered the art of shutting his feelings down, focusing on what must be done. One of so many things we have in common. I think some of the affection is his, and some is mine, but that’s about it from us. Oh, and some of the excitement might be mine. I haven’t managed to eliminate it all yet.

Without having to think, I reach up to block a laser bolt heading his way, triggering the shield built into my bowstaff. A stun-bolt misses me by inches as he returns fire. We know one another’s rhythm perfectly by now. I couldn’t ask for a better shieldmate, though he surely could. I only wish I could say the same about the third member of our impromptu strike team. Phasma is charging at our opponents like a nerf at a gate, and it’s all I can do to keep the worst of the laser fire away from her. It’s uncomfortably clear to me that she isn’t used to fighting without armour any more, just as it must be painfully obvious to her from the way I twist and dodge – the phrase _Purcassian river eel_ flashes through my head, and for a moment I wonder why, and why it feels so appropriate - that I’ve never worn anything heavier than sparring gear, and _that_ was when I was a student learning martial arts just for fun. The bloodlust and anger emanating from her is distracting, too.

 _Pull yourself together_ , I try to signal. _We’re supposed to be a team here_. Unfortunately, we don’t know one another well enough to communicate through emotion the way Hux and I do, and I can’t focus sufficiently to use proper words. He, luckily, picks up the message and transmits it far better than I can. She complies, with little grace. I can’t say I blame her. Taking orders from a rebel and a traitor is bad enough, but when the rebel is a _nurse_ …

Perhaps this is a good moment to introduce myself. My full name is Nurse Elinor Mary Kirsten Macnab. Most people call me Elinor, or if they’re in a hurry El. Born and raised on Naboo, trained on Coruscant. No comments about the former, please. I’ve been part of the Resistance for something over two years, standard, and am now second in command of its medical corps – not much of an achievement, given that there are only four of us, one a part-time untrained civilian, namely Armitage. I’m also a Force-user, mainly – as you’ve probably guessed – in the field of emotions. The proper term is _empath_. Armitage and I have a rare type of connection unimaginatively called an empathy bond, which lets us share feelings and sensations at any time and over any distance. Often without meaning to do so.

Physical description? All right. Human. Female. Twenty-four standard years old, but against all narrative convention looking about twenty still. Five foot nine, maybe five-ten counting combat boots. Slender, but with unusually broad shoulders and substantial muscles for a female. Hair: dark brown with touches of red and/or gold depending on lighting, cleanness and (I’m almost sure) its mood, waist length, thick, wavy and currently mostly in a single braid. (“Mostly” because the perishing stuff always sneaks out of any style. Entropy in action.) Eyes: golden brown edged with near-black, framed by long black lashes. Other facial features: mismatched and generally too big, but I’m told quite striking from the right angle. Complexion: annoyingly pale and burn-prone, dusted with freckles and dotted with moles. Figure: feminine but not spectacular or obstructive. Other distinguishing marks: two scars on the left forearm, one near the elbow, thin and jagged, the other forming three sides of a rectangle, usually covered by a wrist-mounted datapad and biomonitor. Happy now?

Phasma still isn’t. Nor is anyone still upright among the stormtrooper detachment we’re fighting. I can sense her disapproval as I drop down to a low lunge, a stray bolt (these eejits can’t shoot straight, but sometimes they get lucky) whizzing overhead, then push up to a walking stance, staff held horizontally in both hands and shield extended around its full length. Showing off like that isn’t something she used to teach. Nor is it something I’ve been taught in a combat context, but improvisation is. As I flow through the deadly dance, moving on autopilot, one question rattles around my brain: _how in blazes did this happen?_


	2. 1: Yavin IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my numbering's a bit out of sync. If anyone can tell me how to handle prologues and epilogues properly in AO3, I'd be extremely grateful.

The question knocks down a stack of unfiled medium-term memories, scattering them across the cranial floor. Automatically, I start to sort them again, beginning with the earliest: this morning on Yavin IV, at the main Resistance base, where all these shenanigans began, at least for me.

I’m outside, sparring with Ben before my official shift begins. (Actually, I’m never really off duty – none of us are – but there’s still a difference between on-shift and merely on-call.) We’ve taken to practising together a lot in the last few months, staff against staff at first, more recently sabre against shieldstaff, and always mind against mind. Given that he’s a fully-fledged Jedi and ex-Sith (emphasis on the _ex_ ) and I’ve only been learning this style for a year and a half, the final outcome is a foregone conclusion, but it does build fitness and keep us both on our toes. That imbalance is probably why, when Armitage approaches and tries to get my attention, it’s Ben who lets his guard down just enough for me to land a touch that would crack a couple of ribs if I were to use more force. (Apart from anything else – and there’s a lot of _else_ – Rey would kill me if I hurt her partner, heart-sister and blood-kin or not.) Just getting near him in a match is enough of an achievement that I almost lose concentration, but the words _Don’t get cocky_ – in a Corellian accent, for some reason – flash through my mind just in time to alert me to his counterattack. We finish the bout (he wins overall, as usual), salute each other and head over to see what’s got Armitage so worked up.

Because he _is_ worked up. I don’t need to be bonded to him, or even an empath, to see that. He’s shifting from foot to foot and looks more excited and agitated, in his buttoned-up way, than I’ve ever seen him. I resist the urge to read the datapad he’s holding and draw my own conclusions. He’s my best friend, for skies’ sake. I should be able to _talk_ to the man. “What’s the matter?”

It takes a moment for him to line his thoughts up. (Oh stars, I’m rubbing off on him.) Finally, he settles on, “I’ve found her.”

“Found who?”, Ben asks, but I can already hazard a pretty good guess. Apart from his stepmother (don’t go there), until now there have only been three significant _her_ s in Armitage’s life. He knows where his blood-mother and heart-mother are, which just leaves one option. “Phasma?”

Armitage’s first real friend and loyal ally was presumed killed in the chaos after the _Raddus_ crashed through the _Supremacy_ (daft name for a ship, and as it turned out untrue), but I’m standing here with one man who faked his death and another who actually _was_ dead until resurrected by his soulmate, with some help from a few ghosts, a couple of friends and a tree (don’t ask). Anything’s possible. “Yes.”

“Where?” Ben and I speak at the same time.

“Parnassos. Her home planet.” That makes sense. After the turbulence of the last few years, we all want to go home, to find some sort of peace and stability. I can’t yet, but Armitage did, Poe has and for some of our friends, especially Rey and Ben, home is wherever they’re together.

Armitage is looking and feeling a touch uncomfortable now. He addresses me directly. “I want to see her, make sure she’s all right. Will you come with me?”

Ben is a bit affronted at being left out, but we both know the reason. There is no way in the whole flaming galaxy he wants to leave Rey and their daughter now. Not with the little one’s arrival so close.

“I’d love to, but that’s a command-level decision. That means talking to both generals at once, and you know what _that_ ’s like.” Herding lothcats doesn’t do it justice.

“I think you might be in with a chance now.” Ben gives us a sly grin, and I can see his father in him so clearly. (Why is that, when I only ever saw General Solo from a distance?) “Breakfast is ready.”

He’s right. We head for the mess hall, Armitage’s arm firmly around mine to make sure I don’t slip away to make a start on today’s work. This must really be important to him. Normally, he shares my belief that caf and biscuits are an adequate breakfast.

I’m not one to pass up good food when it’s available, though, and sparring always gives me an appetite. As we load up our plates, I see that Poe and Finn are indeed both here, sitting with Rey, Rose (holding hands with Finn under the table, but only when they think no one’s looking; Rey and I exchange a what-can-you-do look) and Chewbacca. It doesn’t take long to steer the conversation to our proposed trip to Parnassos.

“Can you afford to be gone that long?” This is from Poe. “You two are half the medical staff, after all.” (We all know the real reason he’s not keen, but there’s such a thing as professionalism.)

Armitage has already thought about that. “We’re mostly picking up slack from other departments, and there’s less of that than there used to be. Besides, Parnassos isn’t too far away. We can be there and back in under a day. Dr Kalonia and D-O can hold the fort that long. I checked with them earlier.” Hold the fort? I really am rubbing off on him.

Finn chimes in. Phasma might have made a good chunk of his life a living hell, but Armitage is different. And there’s the small matter of a life debt. “He’s right. Intelligence hasn’t reported any trouble, and none of us can sense anything, except that this is important.” He glances at Rey and Ben for confirmation. They’re both still eating, but express agreement.

Poe switches attention to me. “And you’re really OK with this?”

I’m a bit distracted by my food, but manage to form a coherent reply. “Absolutely. I’ve patched up far more pieces of clothing than patients lately. A change of pace and air would be good. And as Finn says, this _is_ important.” I don’t mention the Force directly. It tends to make non-sensitives uneasy, even those who _haven’t_ had a too-close encounter with a Sith.

Poe gives in. “All right, if it makes you happy. There’ll be a shuttle ready for you by the time you finish breakfast and get changed.” I belatedly realise that I’m still wearing training gear and no shoes, and my hair’s in a right state. “Make sure you bring her back in one piece, OK?” That’s rich coming from him. I know Rey’s also thinking about the mess he made of the _Falcon_ just before Exegol. “And don’t be late home again.”

We assure him we shan’t, finish eating and head off to dress. I choose my one set of non-smart civilian clothes – blue trousers and a medium-sleeved white tunic, with a black jacket and my usual combat boots. Turquoise stud earrings and a neat-as-possible plait to complete the look, and of course my med-kit and staff. When Armitage and I meet up again by the landing pads, he’s now wearing his old First Order uniform, which his mother sent on from Arkanis and I fixed up with pieces of a black shirt I happened to have lying around (really not my colour, but that was the dress code for working at the end-of-year parties at Coruscant University) a little while back. No hair gel, I’m pleased to see, and my alterations to the cut of the trousers paid off. We ignore the usual curious and (less frequent than before, thank goodness) hostile looks as we make our way to the one shuttle prepped for flight.

RTS _Paige Tico_ is an old friend to me; Poe taught me to fly in her. Her cloaking system and scanners are top of the line, and she even has some decent shields, although they can’t be used alongside the cloak. I double-check that she has enough fuel and some to spare in case of emergency. As we step inside, he heads straight for the co-pilot’s seat, leaving me to pilot the shuttle. I’m not surprised. He doesn’t like small craft much. Nor do I, technically, but that’s because I’ve never been comfortable with flying. Star Destroyer or X-wing: they’re all a thin shell protecting us from unforgiving vacuum or unyielding gravity, depending on circumstances. I trust _Tico_ , though, and Armitage. I program in the coordinates, ask the computer for a scatter pattern (can’t be too careful) and run through the pre-flight checks as calmly as my suddenly pounding heart allows. All too soon, we jump through the final hoops and lift up into the air, Parnassos bound.


	3. 2: Parnassos

Now that we’re actually on our way, Armitage seems uneasy, and it’s not just about the ship or the pilot (though I wouldn’t blame him, especially on the latter score). He’s worrying about how Phasma will react, given that she probably thinks he’s a traitor. I’m more worried about being away from base for so long. It’s only my second such trip since before Exegol. What if there’s a problem?

Three jumps into the scatter pattern, to break the silence, he asks, “ _Tico_ – any relation to Rose?”

“Her sister.” My tone is flat, emotionless. As though that makes any difference. “Bomber pilot. Killed taking down the Dreadnought over D’Qar.” I knew Paige slightly, and liked her a lot. Some of the tears I shed once I was alone after Crait were for her and the sister she left behind.

“The _Fulminatrix_.” I didn’t know that. Just the death toll and knock-on effects. More silence, then: “Are all y- our ships named after pilots?”

“The shuttles, corvettes and larger fighters are. Carriers are named for command officers, and small fighters just have callsigns. But yes, we try to keep our pilots’ names alive. In a sense, they’re still flying with us, long after their bodies have returned to stardust and their souls joined with the Force.” I realise for the first time that that is the difference between the Resistance and the First Order in a nutshell. Their ships all have or had grandiose titles – _Finalizer_ , _Supremacy_ , _Steadfast_. Usually wrong. Ours memorialise people – _Bodhi_ , _Darklighter_ , _Raddus_ , _Holdo_. (Not _Organa_ or _Skywalker_ , though. They don’t need that to be still with us. And General Solo’s legacy is his own ship, and his son.) Even the callsigns have been passed down through generations of pilots. They fight for dreams of conquest; we fight for our brothers and sisters. Which is better? Well, the proof of the pudding is in the eating.

“That’s ridiculously sentimental.”

“And?” I shoot him a teasing grin. “Sentiment is proper to sapient beings. Organics, anyway. I don’t know how you’d program it into a droid, although I suppose it’s possible.”

His only response is an exasperated sigh. We don’t talk again for the rest of the flight, but now and then one of us accidentally-on-purpose brushes a hand against the other’s, our established code for reassurance and support. At last, we drop out of the tunnel into realspace for the final time and see Parnassos below us.

I didn’t expect the sight to be so painful. Parnassos is a wreck of a planet, ruined by corporate greed. Once, it was as beautiful as my own home, but now… Might this have happened to Naboo, if Sheev’s plans hadn’t been stopped in time?

 _Present, not past or possibility_ , I remind myself. And to satisfy my own curiosity, not quite. This was a nuclear disastrophe. Operation Cinder was an attempt to disrupt our weather patterns. The difference is roughly the same as that between two equally nasty viruses. Same end result, but different symptoms and treatments.

There’s little left on the planet that I’d describe as advanced civilisation. Certainly, no air traffic control. I don’t bother with cloaking our descent. It drains our batteries too fast to justify the minimal benefit. Something tells me we’re going to need plenty of power later on. I let both Armitage and the Force guide me to the edge of a high plateau, apparently Claw territory, as near as I can get us to a cave system that Armitage tells me is called the Nautilus, Scyre territory. Phasma’s childhood home.

There’s almost nobody about. Environments have a Force-presence of their own, made up of all the local lifeforms, and this one is harsh and sharp, a poison-dipped dagger. Apt. The devastation here is entirely artificial. If there are any Scyre or Claw here, they’re keeping a low profile. I can only sense one other sapient being. Female, spiky, metallic. As hard and brutal as the land where she grew up.

“Phasma?” Armitage calls out as the echo of our footsteps precedes us into the caves. Sound here is unreliable, which is a problem for someone as short-sighted as I am. I tune back in to the Force instead, just in time to sense the woman around the next corner.

“Traitor!” Phasma is pointing a blaster rifle at him. Clearly, news spreads even this far, but loses something in transmission. She hasn’t seen me yet. I capitalise on that. A rifle is good at long distance, but this close, your opponent can easily have it out of your hands if they have the advantage of surprise and know what they’re doing. Which I do. I rearrange the settings to my liking, fuse the controls and start to hand it back – then duck as a blade scythes towards where my neck was. No doubt coated in something I don’t want in my system, thank you very much. I drop the rifle and step back, ready to get the knife off her, only to see that Armitage is holding his to her throat. The gesture is appreciated, but I asked him to leave it behind!

“Phasma.” The gentleness in his tone stops both of us in our tracks – her before she can try anything with the blade she’s still holding, me before I can try to remove it or give him a piece of my mind. “We don’t want to hurt you.” Her knife is no longer in a threatening position, so he sheathes his. “I found out you had survived and wanted to make sure you were all right.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speaking like this, even when he’s talking to Poe and thinks I can’t hear. (I usually wish he was right.) No, hold on – I have. In the forests outside our base, my life fading with the light.

“Well, you have your answer.” She still hasn’t put the knife away. Going for the rifle, even to hand it back to her, would only inflame the situation. She shoots me a contemptuous glance, presumably pegging me as rebel scum, a soft city-dweller, and a coward to boot. (All three conclusions are incorrect. Though given how much of my build my outfit manages to conceal, I can at least forgive her “soft”.) I haven’t even drawn a weapon. No need, but she doesn’t know that. “And who’s she?”

I bite my tongue. The question was addressed to Armitage, and she’ll accept his answer more readily than mine. “This is Elinor. Second in command of the Resistance medical corps, and my best friend.”

“Pleased to meet you.” An automatic response on my part. I restrain myself from trying to shake her hand. My accent gets me another dirty look. Unsurprising. The Republic’s legacy here is literally toxic. Trying to apologise for my ancestors’ sins now would not be a good move. “Is there anywhere we can go to talk properly?” I remember a law-enforcement officer I patched up once, back in training, talking about de-escalating situations in or near a witness’s or suspect’s own home. (It beat discussing the multiple fractures to his arm.) Get them to somewhere they feel in control, and they should calm down. Normally asking for a cup of tea is useful as well, but that might be going a bit too far right now.

“Follow me.” Her tone is grudging, but I can sense her automatic defences being stood down by a familiar face. A friend, even. She’ll tolerate me, as long as I’m not a threat. I realise now why Armitage asked me to come and not Poe. Poe is a soldier, through and through. De-escalation is _not_ his thing, but it _is_ mine. By now at least one person would be dead, probably Poe, and Armitage would certainly have killed Phasma if he were. And maybe been poisoned in the process. As it is, we’re all alive and likely to remain so.

We come to an area she’s clearly made her own. Her childhood home? No; by all accounts that would have held too many memories, not all of them good. Somewhere close, where she can put her mark on her surroundings. She doesn’t invite us to sit, but we take that as read. I perch a little way away, idly scanning around while Armitage and Phasma talk. Still nothing to write home about. I tune into and out of their conversation, which is naturally a précis of events since they last saw each other. I drift into a memory of similar chats, though rather less fraught, with schoolfriends at our favourite restaurants. That reminds me that it’s been quite a while since breakfast, and I have three packed lunches and a flask of caf stashed in my med-kit. Phasma’s still ignoring me, so I signal to Armitage, who introduces the subject more naturally than I could. That goes some way towards softening her attitude, but I don’t think we’re ever likely to be friends.

“Come with me.” The shift in Armitage’s tone to a mix of command and something close to pleading pulls me out of a daydream about going home. I haven’t let my mental guard down like that in so long. What was I thinking? “There’s nothing for you here. I need you by my side.” He didn’t mention _that_. Working with Sith for so long has taught him concealment. I rein back my annoyance at not having been consulted until I can work through his reasoning. After the last time I held back evidence of mutiny got so many people killed, I wouldn’t necessarily have kept it a secret. And the others would have been _furious_.

“I’m not going to the Resistance.” Not defiance. A statement of fact, almost a prediction.

I speak up for the first time, startling them both. They’d forgotten about me. Not unusual. “It might be necessary at first, but there is some off-base accommodation, to which you’d be welcome until we can fix up something else. There are other ex-Order people around, and some of them will be bound to want to help. I’ll call Jannah; she’ll know what to do.” Phasma is puzzled. “Formerly TZ-1719. Now Jannah Calrissian. But Armitage is right. From an outsider’s perspective, at least, there isn’t really much here for a warrior of your calibre.” Easy on the flattery. “And you could do some good for the rest of this planet. Once the Republic’s up and running again – properly, not the mess made out of the scraps of the Empire – your testimony could persuade them to repair this place. At the very least, you could help ensure that nothing like this happens again for a very long time.”

That strikes a chord. I know it would for me, if the Republic had abandoned Naboo. But she’s not going to cave in just like that, not for some overprivileged schoolgirl.

Armitage knows that. “Our work isn’t done yet. The galaxy is still in chaos, and we need to steer that to the right outcome. Not another Empire, or another corrupted Republic.” He holds out a hand. He stopped wearing gloves when he left the Order, and his hands are starting to show evidence of hard work at last. Like mine. She hesitates, then seals the deal with a handshake.

It doesn’t take long to pack up her things. Rather than get in the way, I head back to _Tico_ and prep her for flight. When the others step on board, there’s a moment of silent debate before Armitage returns to the co-pilot’s seat and Phasma takes a passenger seat close behind us. She’s _not_ happy about being in a rebel ship. I want to reach out to her, but she doesn’t want _my_ sympathy.

I take off slowly, giving Phasma time to say goodbye. When I judge that she’s ready, which doesn’t take as long as I expected, we make the first jump of the scatter pattern, cruising in realspace for a minute or so before jumping again.

“What are you up to?” Phasma wants to know why we haven’t gone straight back to base.

“Scatter pattern.” I don’t take my eyes off the console. “Several short jumps to random locations. Standard security precaution, usually to prevent whole fighter squadrons being followed or captured, but you can’t be too careful. Similar to lightspeed-skipping, though we spend longer at each realspace point. _Tico_ is good, but she wouldn’t stand up to that treatment for long.” A third jump. Before I can make the fourth, a red light on the console puts everything else on hold. “Oh heck.”

“Problem?” Phasma is borderline smug at the prospect.

“In a sense. It’s a distress signal. Better call it in.” This last is to Armitage, who starts preparing to record a transmission to base while I begin to trace the signal.

“You’re going to answer it?”

“Of course. We’re the only Resistance unit in the area. It’s only just registering on our instruments; base might not have picked it up yet. Standard protocol is to inform main base of our intentions, make a preliminary investigation and report back. Unless there’s a clear and immediate danger to life or liberty, in which case we go in hard and fast and fudge the paperwork later. There, got it. Duluur sector, Devaron system. We can do that safely in one jump. Within fuel margin, too, just about. That OK with everyone?” Taking silence for assent, I punch in the coordinates as Armitage finishes the transmission. Devaron? Why do I know that name?

Phasma shakes her head in disbelief as we enter the tunnel. Her life so far hasn’t exactly convinced her of the benefits of altruism, and I’m suddenly determined to change that. Devaron, Devaron… Well, we’ll soon see why it’s so important.


	4. 3: Devaron (orbit)

Even one safe jump can take quite a while. I use the time to pull up the Resistance’s files on Devaron, reading them aloud to my co-pilot and passenger. “Temperate, mainly forested, jungle near the equator. Technologically advanced – the Devaronians were one of the first spacefaring civilisations in this galaxy, long before humans got that far. Strong tradition of environmental preservation, though, and agriculture is still very important, economically and socially.” I approve. Technological progress shouldn’t mean sacrificing beauty or spoiling the land that supports us. “There’s a lot here about a male-female cultural divide, but it boils down to males going off and having adventures and females doing all the other important things. Not unusual.” I _know_ Phasma’s smiling at that, and I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face myself. “Part of the Republic, with substantial autonomy. Folded into the Empire – usual laundry list of petty cruelties. Nothing that would spark rebellion, but enough to crush the spirit.”

“And your Republic is so different?” Phasma, of course. (Though Armitage agrees, and one can’t blame either of them. Especially if one happens to be part-Arkanan, like me.)

I’ve heard that song before. I aim for conciliation. “Maybe not, sometimes, but it tried to be. I’m not blind to the New Republic’s failings, but it was at least better than the Empire, and could have improved, given time.”

“Not what I’d have expected, from a Core girl.”

Heard _that_ one before, too. It doesn’t annoy me so much these days. “Mid-Rim, in point of fact, and of age. And relative privilege often comes with a desire to do something useful with it. You’d be surprised, and I hope you will. Anyway. The New Republic established a few outposts on Devaron, but otherwise left it to its own devices. Best course of action, in the circumstances.” I scroll down. “Remarkable biological similarity between Devaronians and humans, past the externals. Convergent evolution at work, I’d guess. Pharmacologically alike, by and large – that means most of my meds will be both safe and effective if my professional skills are called upon.” If they are, I’ll answer the call, of course. Xenophobia has no place in the Resistance. Nor on Naboo, where there are two co-dominant sapient species and humans are technically a non-native population, or Coruscant, once the Old Republic’s capital. I grew up knowing that no sapient species is superior in value to any other. I know parts of the First Order think differently, but I don’t care.

At the end of the file are some notes thrown in seemingly out of historical interest, but they’re of very _present_ interest to me. I have to fight to keep my voice level. “There’s a natural vergence in the Force there – somewhere it’s particularly strong. A Jedi Temple was built on top of it. The last inhabitants were killed during the Clone Wars, and it’s been a ruin ever since. Luke Skywalker went there a couple of times, during and after the civil war, but clearly it was in no condition to be used again.” I can see it so clearly in my mind’s eye – fallen stones, damaged pillars, an abandoned well, grass everywhere. Why is it so _detailed_? There’s nothing important left in the file, except for some bits and pieces about the planet’s flora and fauna, and useful phrases in the local language. I repeat the greeting under my breath until it’s fixed in my memory. Devaronian feels interesting on my tongue, like water rippling over stones, wearing them smooth as it races on. Phasma doesn’t see the point of this.

“Surely everyone speaks Basic?”

“Most people _understand_ Basic, true. But it’s still polite to make the effort.” Besides, I love languages. I learned Bocce at school, and know at least a few phrases of Twi’leki and half a dozen other common tongues. Both my training and the Resistance were or are multi-species environments, and I like to be able to greet someone in their own language and have a chance of understanding the reply. And of course just about everyone in the Resistance understands binary, and maybe some Shyriiwook, although the latter is hard for non-Wookiees to get right and the former flat-out impossible for any organic to reproduce.

Armitage engages _Tico_ ’s cloaking device as we exit hyperspace, just in case. It’s not immediately necessary. There are no First Order ships in orbit; nothing at all on this side of the planet. There’s an orbital refuelling station on the other side, which I know from the files was used as an Alliance staging post for a while, under the Empire’s nose. I have to suppress a grin at that thought. We work together to lock _Tico_ into a geostationary orbit just above the source of the distress signal and begin figuring out what in blazes is going on here.

Before we can make much headway there, a transmission arrives from base. Poe’s image and voice. I doubt he’s been far from the comm station all day. “Main base to _Tico_. Your transmission has been received. You both know the procedure, so I expect you’ll already be there by the time you get this. Usual drill: assess the situation; report back if there’s time; if not, use your initiative. El, you’re in charge. Look after each other, and may the Force be with you. Main base out.”

Well, that seems pretty clear. _Tico_ ’s scanners are already trained on the planet below us, and set to record-and-transmit mode. Base will be getting all these data just as soon as they can. Sub-space transmission really is amazing, using hyperspace to sidestep special relativity in the same way that ships do. We’re above a village that the database tells us is called Tikaroo, in an agricultural area on the edge of the equatorial jungle. According to the files, it was forced to switch from farming to catering for trophy hunters under the Empire, but has switched back since. Armitage and I exchange dark looks at that. We share an opinion on trophy hunting. Wasteful and disrespectful. I have no problem with hunting for food, or culling an animal population before starvation sets in, but hunting for sport doesn’t sit well with me. Tikaroo is also the closest settlement to the Temple of Eedit. I think I know which one is more important to the crew and passengers of the First Order command shuttle parked carelessly in a field, taking a good chunk out of the harvest. There’s really no need for that!

“They must be after the temple. Nobody would go to so much trouble for a few pihkron skins, or crops that aren’t ready to harvest yet. And if they wanted repairs, they’d have picked a better spot. It hasn’t crashed, as far as I can tell. There‘s always been talk of hidden treasure in the temple, exclusively among people who don’t know the Jedi well. That’s _not_ their thing.”

“Logical.” Armitage agrees, thank goodness. We focus in on the village. Impressive inbuilt defences, post-Imperial at a guess, fully active. Pairs of stormtroopers at every entrance/exit. Fewer than, according to the others, that class of shuttle normally holds. It’s a siege. _Idiots._

“A standoff, for now. The stores look intact; _very_ sloppy planning. All the defenders would normally have to do is wait. The crops won’t be ready for quite some time, and I’m yet to meet an active stormtrooper who was a natural farmer. Some _ex_ -troopers, of course. But I think this lot will run out of patience before they run out of food, and they could well have some seriously heavy weaponry. We need to sort this out, pronto. Suggestions?” I know Armitage is a far better tactician and strategist than I’ll ever be, and Phasma’s pretty good there as well, but I have to look as though I’m in charge. This is a compromise, and he at least knows that. Hopefully she does as well.

“I presume Macnab’s Rules are in force?” Armitage – Hux, now that this is a possible combat situation – already knows the answer, but it’s always good to check these things. For Phasma’s benefit, I run through my own rules of engagement. Talk before you shoot, ensure minimal casualties and if possible no fatalities on either side, and while the floor is not your friend, your opponent should spend as much time there as possible, without suffering unduly.

“I assume you will try to negotiate first. The commander will most likely be back in the shuttle. It would be unwise for me to accompany you, at least at first. I strongly suspect that this unit was loyal to Pryde and the Emperor.” The contempt in his voice and mind is almost tangible. And he’s right, dash it. Some of these soldiers would try to execute him on sight. He’s hardly inconspicuous.

“And if that doesn’t work?” Always good to have a fallback.

“I believe the strategy you call “Scarif tactics” will be of use in this situation.”

“Three people making enough noise for thirty? Perfect.” As Hux notifies base of our intentions, I pick a landing spot a comfortable distance from the FO shuttle, away from the crop fields, and we start the descent, still cloaked. _Tico_ ’s cloaking and engine mufflers really are excellent. Apart from the air displacement, which I’m trying to keep to a minimum, they won’t know we’re coming.

“You do _know_ what happened on Scarif?” Trust Phasma to pour cold water on our mood.

“Yes, I do. I also know that the same type of strategy has been used several times since then, with rather less loss of life.” When my friends rescued me from a FO Star Destroyer, for a start.

We touch down, still working through the fine details of the plan. Phasma will come with me at first, while Hux waits in the shuttle, all three constantly in commlink contact. If things start to go wrong, she’ll excuse herself and make her way around the ring of sentries to await my signal. If things go _really_ wrong, the stormtroopers will think that all the hells have broken loose. They won’t have, of course. It’ll just be us. But it should take a while for them to realise that.

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters coming soon; keep your commlink on.


End file.
